I feel her rising anxiety because why is he doing that? But she can’t ask. She isn’t allowed to question him, or there will be consequences.
I see him take out his phone—which used to be hers, but he changed the fingerprint and locked her out—and reach for the saucepan hanging from a hook over the stove, and, without warning, he slammed it against his own head.
She had cried out in shock. “What are you doing?”
As the blood gushed down his face, he grabbed her hair, making her eyes leak and her mascara run while he held the saucepan close to her cheek, but not near enough to leave a mark.
He smiled and told her, “You shouldn’t have worn that skirt.”
He let her go and stepped away.
The knife was already in her hand. She whirled to face him, and he dropped to the floor.
Then he called the police, telling them that his wife was attacking him and he needed help.
I see the bruises and the healed bones across her body. I see the bones that are still healing. All the wounds that he aimed at parts of her body that can be covered by her clothing. But, oh, that skirt was too short, and there was a bruise on her thigh above her knee, and damn, it must have been visible…
I see all of this within a heartbeat; the knowledge flows into my mind with pure clarity.
As I step through the door, the man’s focus switches to me, and a terrified expression floods his face. “Help me! She’s crazy!”
I tilt my head and croon sweetly, “Oh, I’ll help you.”
His brow furrows, his gaze rapidly taking in my appearance from the top of my head and my loose hair, which is probably in a more fucking crazy state than his wife’s, to the whip at my waist and all the way down my black-clad body to my bare feet.
“You aren’t the police,” he snarls. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”
It takes me a mere two seconds to dart into the space between him and the woman. “What is your name?”
The man jolts to his feet, his lips twisting. “I’m not telling you. You’d better get out of my house right now, bitch.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I say, inclining my head toward the woman without taking my eyes off the man. “What is your name?”
I’m not concerned for my own safety. My snakes are ready to attack if I need them, and my power of compulsion will subdue this man within a heartbeat. But for once, we’re here in time, and I’m not going to let anything happen to this woman.
“Amanda,” she whispers, her voice unsteady, her throat constricted with fear. Her body will go into shock if I don’t quickly get her warmth and comfort.
“Amanda, I need you to listen to me carefully and do exactly as I say. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” she says, even though I can tell she’s barely holding on. She is shattered, every part of her sense of self and her identity stripped and mutilated until she lives every waking moment in a state of alertness and fear.
“Put down the knife, Amanda,” I say calmly, still watching the man, who looks at me as if I’m insane, but I really don’t give a fuck what he thinks. “Go to whichever room in this house has a blanket and pull it over yourself. All the way over yourself, okay? Curl up if you have to. And then I want you to bring to mind the happiest memory you have…” I quickly assess her thoughts. “The day you got your degree, and your whole life was ahead of you. Hold on to that day and replay it over and over until the sun comes up. Then it will be a new day, and all of this will be over.”
There’s no answer behind me, but I hear her shuddering breaths and the sound of her tears falling down her cheeks.
“Can you do that for me?” I ask her.
The quietest, most strangled whisper comes back to me. “Yes.”
There’s a clatter as she puts the knife onto the bench, but her hand’s shaking so much that it lands at the edge of the sink and slides into it with a rattle.
I’m not worried about the knife. We’ll wipe down the scene before we leave, and my sisters will use their power of compulsion to ensure the police turn away in the meantime.
The woman stumbles from the kitchen.
I don’t wait for her to leave, my own power of compulsion filling the air with the scent of wildflowers. I would have used it on Amanda, too, if I needed her to move faster, but this way, she would have a small sense of the control that she desperately needs.
“You,” I whisper to the man, leaning toward him, “belong to me now.”
